


Bearskin Rug

by knockoutqueenoftheunderworld



Category: Nancy Drew (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, sea of darkness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 22:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9462092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knockoutqueenoftheunderworld/pseuds/knockoutqueenoftheunderworld
Summary: Mel Corbalis meets Henry Bolet in Skipbrot, and he has delicate hands and a gentle way of moving and a moody demeanor and a quiet fear in his posture, and it's not that Mel looks at him and thinks "I can fix him," it's more like she looks at him and thinks, "Damn, you're gorgeous and sweet and I'd like to show you my winter home and fuck you on the bearskin rug, and if you think you need fixing, I can handle it."





	

When the boat crashes into the dock, Mel jerks so hard she hurts her neck. She spends the rest of the day in her bedroom in the Missti Skip, swearing loudly and icing her neck. Her cello stands in the corner, lonely and sad. It’s ten in the morning the next day when Mel can turn her head enough to actually play her baby. They had put off her performance with Elisabet and the others, something about safety or panic or some other such fuckery.

A fucking ship decided to go out of control and now someone’s missing? Mel huffs and rolls her eyes, because who does she think of but Becca Sawyer - or Nancy Drew, apparently.

Her cello is new and shiny, but Mel picks out one string out of tune and spends an hour playing with the strings and her bow. Mel has no desire to make her way downstairs into the stifling atmosphere of the pub and be forced to talk to people against her will. She gets enough of that from classical music enthusiasts that recognize her from the concerts she gives with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Plus there’s that creepy old dude in the corner that seems to live on alcohol and the tears of the meek.

Mel plucks at her cello, then glides her bow across the strings, sighing at the low, deep notes that fill the air. Her cello calms her down. Works like a charm every time.

Mel lets herself get lost in the music, a skill she acquired in school when the gossip and pressure got out of control. She plays with the pieces she’ll play in the Endless Night, Endless Tunes show, bring the volume up and dropping it low again, speeding up and slowing down and improvising until her fingers burn.

That’s when the scary dude who apparently  _ isn’t _ chained to the bar pounds on her door.

She throws open the door and levels the burly man with her best death glare. “What is it?” Mel demands, annoyed at being interrupted.

“You’re disturbing the guests, girl,” the man sneers. “There’ve been complaints, and Elisabet sent me up here to tell you to knock it off.”

With every word Mel’s eyes narrow and narrow until her eyes are slits. “Get out,” she snarls, waving her bow threateningly.

“This is my place, girl,” the man snaps. “ You’ll stop if you know what’s good for you.” He threateningly waves a hand missing three fingers at her as he retreats down the hallway.

“What the  _ fuck _ .” Mel kicks the side of her bed, and then the wall, and finally smooths her fingers down her cello’s curves. “Sorry, babe,” Mel sighs before returning the instrument to its case.

Mel stretches up and up. Maybe she should get out. She’s been in this hotel room for just under two days. She wrinkles her nose as she considers the pub, but that was better than dealing with the frigid weather outside.

Decision made, Mel reluctantly prepares for the day. Regarding her drawers critically, Mel wishes she’d brought more of her casual clothing. However, as this is a gig, her wardrobe is made up of professional skirts, dresses, and black trousers. She opts for a pair of pants with a pink blazer over a white button down. Her feet are freezing on the bathroom floor so she puts them into her cutesy ankle boots with wooly socks. Her hair’s pure black, and she brushes it until it’s not a complete mess. Mel truly misses the ‘edgy’ outfits of her youth, but no conductor was thrilled to hire a woman with pink hair and thick eyeliner who was obviously still stuck in their scene phase.

Sometimes Mel wonders if she’ll ever escape her scene phase.

The descent down the stairs is easy and casual, and the air is chilly; goosebumps sprout up and down Mel’s arms and she barely suppresses a shiver. She recalls the pub, with its fire pits and heaters and  _ warmth _ . She really wants to be there suddenly. Or in her warm bed, but she wasn’t in the mood to get cabin fever.

Not yet.

Mel can feel the heat from the bustling bar as soon as she nears the doorway. She takes a long, solemn breath to steel herself, like she does before a show, and puts on a neutral expression.

There’s a murmur through the bar, people lounging in front of the fire and chattering across tables, a couple flirting in the corner, a kid in a pink stocking cap playing the word game at the bar, that crotchety old dude downing a pint. Mel sighs through her nose, making her way to the bar as surreptitiously as she could.

She orders a mug of whatever is on tap and barely manages to not spit it back out when she receives it.

Mel huffs. She misses her margaritas. Or melgaritas, as Leela likes to call them now.

They hooked up once, okay? And now they’re friends again so whatever.

Mel cups her mug and does a slow look around the room.

There - in the corner. A man worthy to star on an emo band poster. Black hair, eyeliner, leather jacket and fingerless gloves, black nail polish and skin tone that matches the snow outside. Mel might even own that foundation. She feels her lips tugging upwards and her eyebrows raising in interest, even as the guy sits at the booth alone, fiddling with his phone sporting a delicious pout.

Ooh, this could be good.

Alcohol abandoned, Mel makes her way over to him, mentally cursing herself for leaving behind her lace tights and black lipstick. She plops down across from him, leaning forward just enough to be approaching a leer.

“Can I help you?” The man asks in a quiet, sarcastic voice. Mel likes him.

“Just with a talk,” Mel replies, and lets her eyes rake over him, a strategy that’s had one too many guys (and girls) panting in just under thirty seconds. To her shock, he stiffens and glances away, hand not grasping his phone tightening into a fist. “Something wrong?”

He loosens, then, relaxing just the slightest bit. But he meets her eyes now. He almost seems to be steeling himself as he inhales slowly and then says, “I’m Henry.”

“Mel,” she tells him. “I like your nail polish.”

“Raven black,” he says, looking at her similarly black nails and nodding appreciatively. A ghost of a smile whispers over his face.

Wow, Mel is  _ way _ more emo than she remembers.

But he’s beautiful, in a dark way.

“What do you do?” she asks him.

“I own a cemetery in New Orleans,” he intones, looking to the ground like he’s embarrassed.

“No way.” That’s the coolest thing Mel’s heard all day! She can picture it now, spooky and dark and rainy and dangerous, and dare she say romantic? “My family used to visit New Orleans, and some of us are buried there.”

Henry looks shocked. “You’re not…”

“Gonna run away screaming? No.” Mel smiles at him. “Do you live on the property?”

“Yeah, I inherited the estate from my uncle. My late uncle. Obviously.” Henry mutters the last part. Mel knows that tone all too well; the one Leela uses when she misses a shot in a basketball game, the one Mel uses when she royally screws up a piece: self deprecation.

And Henry, well, he’s too pretty for that.

“I’m a cellist,” Mel says. “I’ve played at a lot of funerals. Maybe we could work something out?”

Henry’s eyes grow far away and a weariness takes him over. He takes a sip from the mug in front of him and considers, long and slow. Mel doesn't break the silence; she's had a hard time trusting, too. Finally he says, “I haven’t had good experiences, Mel.”

Mel is nonplussed. “What happened?”

“Girl. Kept asking me to buy her stuff if I wanted her to stay with me. She was…”

“A bitch?” Mel supplies helpfully. “I’m rich," she adds, as though that's going to help.

Henry raises an eyebrow, and if this is what his sass is gonna look like, Mel’s body is ready. “Is that so?” He places his phone on the table, an invitation in Mel’s eyes.

Mel nods and takes his phone, creating a new contact and adding her number. “I have a summer home in Italy and a timeshare in Canada. Real nice place. Bearskin rug.” Henry takes a deep breath and tips his head.

“There are snowmobiles and ice caves here.”

“It’s fucking cold outside,” Mel replies. Henry is turning pink.

“You’re right, sorry, that was stupid, never mind-” Henry's posture droops like he's trying to become as small as possible, and damn, this boy has been burned, and if Mel ever meets the bitch that did this to him there will be another body for Henry’s cemetery.

“Hey, it’s alright,” is what Mel chooses to say out loud. “I was just being a whiner. Let me go upstairs and get my stuff, I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes.”

“Uh, alright.” Henry looks frazzled, his hands trembling. Mel freezes in her tracks.

“If that’s alright with you.” He’s going to need a light hand, Mel thinks, if I want him to trust me and be okay.

“Yeah.” Henry looks visibly relieved. Mel makes a mental note to ask for his explicit permission for anything she wants to do to him or with him. “Sorry, uh-”

“You’re good,” is all Mel has to say, grinning as she stands up. “See you soon.”

“See you.”

**Author's Note:**

> So this happened.


End file.
